Mia Famiglia
by ClairDeLaLuna
Summary: When Romano goes missing after a G8 summit, It's up to Italy to find him, all the while suffering the same torture through their bond as brothers. Germany learns a very important lesson about Italian families: Don't fuck with them. GerIta, Spamano, rated for Romano's (and Italy's!) potty mouth.
1. Chapter 1

Feliciano groaned as visions flashed through his mind, visions of being beaten and bruised by shadows and silhouettes. It was only two, he was only an hour into his afternoon siesta, and now he couldn't sleep thanks to the waves and waves of white hot pain, flashing through him. A cough was ripped from his throat; there was something severely wrong. Technically, he'd known something was wrong ever since he and Germany had returned from the G8 summit meeting yesterday afternoon, in New York. Still, he had paid it no mind. At least, not until now. Another groan let his lips as he swung his legs down onto the ground. He made a move to stand up only to immediately sit back down, putting his head between his knees as lights flashed before his eyes. Why was he feeling so nauseous?

_A kick to the chest, another to the ribs and stomach. Shadowed people swarming him and beating him. **'Let me go, you fucking bastard!' **he growled, a groan coming from his lips as a boot met his face. '**Vaffanculo! Fottiti tua madre!'**_

Feliciano stumbled to the bathroom, and immediately started dry heaving into the sink. Tears rolled down his cheek as blood and bile burned his throat, making its way into the sink. "Germany..." he croaked, voice no louder than a Canadian's whisper. He whimpered a little, feeling another invisible kick to the chest, winding him. "Germany!" He tried again, the yelling drawing another groan from his lips in pain.

Germany, who had been going to check on Italy anyways, paused mid-step. Italy had yelled for him before, sure, but the tone wasn't the same. It was scared, and in pain. Why was Italy in pain? "Italy? Italy are you–" he paused in his words as his eyes fell on Italy, slumped over the sink. The young Italian looked up from his position on the sink, blood dripping drown his chin. His fingers gripped the counter as his legs shook in his effort to keep upright. "Feliciano! Vhat's zhe matter?" The blond gasped, rushing to wrap an arm around his waist to support him, "is your economy okay?" he asked in concern. He didn't understand, there hadn't been any issues in Italy, not as far as the German knew, anyway.

"Ve... Germ... any... find fr-fratello..." Italy groaned, leaning into Germany. Ludwig paused. Fratello? Wasn't that Italian for brother? What did Feliciano want with Romano?

"Vhat's wrong viz Romano? Vhat does he have to do viz zhis? Did he hurt you? Italy, speak!"

Italy shook his head gently, before a cry left his lips as an invisible blade dug into his chest. He gently waved off Germany's concern. It wouldn't be too long now before he built up an immunity to all but the most extreme of pains, but for now it was all he could feel. Not his pain, but his brother's. "No, no, Germany. Fr-fratello... he is hurting. Wh... When fratello... when fratello hurt, I hurt... Sa... ngh.. merda... Same country, same pain." he explained gently, squirming once more as a knife raked against his skin. It didn't dig in, didn't hurt, but it definitely wasn't comfortable for the pale Italian.

"Vhere is Romano, Italy? Do you know?" the blond male spoke gently, laying Feliciano down on the bed once more. He quickly moved to the bathroom, wetting down a cloth and wringing it out before returning to Italy, wiping the sweat from his brow and the blood from his lips. He watches as the Italian man paled once again, eyes clenching shut. "F... Fongula..." he muttered breathlessly.

"He is not in Italy." he said dazedly, taking a shaky breath. He took a deeper breath as his mind sought out the faint edges of the Roman Empire, feeling for his brother. Nothing. He wasn't anywhere in the Roman Empire, or the former Empire, as it were. "He's not anywhere in... in the former roman Empire... not... not as far as I can... can tell."

Germany paused as he felt something odd brush against his mind, "how can you tell?"

Italy whimpered and cried out, his back jerking upright in invisible pain. "Fongula!" He yelled as he writhed in pain, slumping back down onto the bed breathlessly. Tears rolled down his cheek, his lips parted in a silent 'o' was he fought to think through his pain and answer Ludwig's question.

"My... My grandfather Rome was the... ehm... head of the Empire, you could say. Almost as important as... Holy Roman Empire who... I knew... once.." he sighed as memories of that little boy went through his mind, "because of grandpa Rome, I still... have ties to the old Roman E-Empire... ve... and... I can... can feel when a nation is inside the... ah.. the former Empire." he explained breathlessly. His eyes clenched shut as he was once more drawn into a vision.

_'Shut up, ya Italian bastard. We know who you are.' the man spoke, voice cold as he slid the blade cleanly into Romano's ribs, 'we know what you've done.'_

_Romano gave out a strangled cry, trying desperately hard to show no weakness to these men, even as he thrashed against his shackles. **'Vaffanculo! I don't know what you're talking about! Ah! Fangulo! Che cazzo! Cazzo vai via bastardo! Pezzo di merda! Porco Dio, coglione!'**_

_'I said shut up!' The man snapped, digging the knife in harder, 'you killed my sister!'_

_**'Fan... Feli! Felici..."**_

"Italy?! Italy, vake up, Italy!" Germany called, shaking the red haired man's shoulders roughly.

"Ve..." Feliciano whimpered weakly, taking in a ragged breath. "Ludwig... Lovino... he's in America."

**Dun dun dun! I apologize for the OOC Italy, I sort of imagine that there's more to Italy than everyone thinks and, once his sensitivity to the pain starts to fade, you'll see more of that. After all, not all Italians are weaklings, just ask the mafia. (Uh, actually, you probably shouldn't). Also, Germany is a touch OOC too, but considering his Italy is hurting...**

**The head canon that Germany is the HRE still remains, but considering there was both HRE and Rome, I'm trying to fix some of the plotholes or at least make it make sense to my plot, hence Italy's ability t sense the borders. Anyways.**

**Ciao for now~**


	2. Chapter 2

Italians made a lot of mistakes.

At least, Romano did.

He'd been in New York, waiting to meet up with his stupid little brother, his fratellino, after the G8 meeting for lunch. It seemed like a good idea, at the time. He'd been in America anyways, to talk to Alfred about business, so since he was in New York it couldn't have hurt to spend some time with his fratellino, eating at some fake Italian restaurant.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Romano jolted, taken by surprise by the gun at his back, eyes wide in confusion and annoyance. What stupid humans. "Come with us," the angry male said gruffly, digging the gun into his spine. Romano knew, of course, that he could take these bastard Americans on without a doubt, but he realized that if he did, innocent men and women would be hurt. Now, normally the brash Italian simply wouldn't care – in fact, in New York, it seemed like it would be a normal thing – however, he really didn't want the hassle of dealing with irate New Yorkers, so instead he decided to simply follow them, wait for them to be alone before giving them a piece of his mind.

That was his first mistake.

He let the taller man, with his scruffy face and darker hair, lead him as he was flanked by two other men. He snuck a glance at each, a curse coming from his lips. They were definitely Americans, one of them seeming to be either Italian or Greek. Maybe both, or neither. Turkish was another possibility. At any rate, his skin was more olive toned, with deep brown hair, a touch oily and down to his chin. His eyes were as black as coal, and he had a strong, athletic build. The other guy, however, was his polar opposite. Pale as snow, short, lean with short blond hair and wide, ocean blue eyes. He seemed innocent, as if he didn't really belong in this scene, and that terrified him the most.

Getting into the car was his second mistake.

The next thing he knew, a sharp pain in his neck, and the world went black.

When he finally came to, he had no idea where he was. All he knew was that he was, once again, surrounded by the three men. This time, however, he could see his captor's face – he wasn't nearly as scruffy as he had originally thought. In fact, had been clean shaven, and his hair pulled back, he would have been almost handsome. With one look, Romano could tell he was Italian. There was no doubt about it in his mind, which meant that, as he turned to look at the man with the questionable ethnicity, he was either Greek or Turkish. He didn't seem very Italian to him anymore.

A wave of fear flashed through him; was Feliciano okay?

"You bastardo! Let me go!" Lovino swore, jerking his hands free of the loose strips of fabric that were meant to be his confinement, launching himself at the Italian man, who seemed to be both the ringleader and was holding a gun. He jerked away, a shot going off and embedding itself into the concrete wall. The man, however, was not easily frightened, as he shoved his captive down to the ground, shooting him once in the stomach. A cry left Romano's lips involuntarily, despite his Mafia-like resolve to show no weakness.

Romano put his hands to the bleeding wound, digging his fingers inside with a gentle groan and gritted teeth, searching for the bullet and removing it from his stomach. This seemed to anger his captor and, as he quickly tore his hands from the wound, he was given a swift kick to the chest. His hands instantly went up to protect his face as another kick went to his ribs, then stomach. He groaned deeply, coughing as blood and bile made its way up his throat, vision darkening around the edges. "What a pussy." The Italian-American man growled, kicking him again. Romano coughed, tears springing to his eyes in pain.

_'Oh Feliciano...'_ Lovino thought, remembering their bond, _'I'm sorry you have to feel this too... idiota.'_

He hated himself, hated the bond he and Veneziano shared. He had always tried to block it out, trying to steal himself some privacy while also giving his younger brother the same opportunity. Sometimes, of course, that wasn't always possible, such as when the potato bastard insisted on pulling Feli's curl. Or when the tomato bastard pulled on his own curl. Romano hoped against hope, all the while loathing himself, that his brother would tap into their unspoken bond, and come help him. Or even that Spain would come for him. After all, Feliciano did it unknowingly all the time, with his obsession for pasta (which was more common in southern Italy than northern Italy), so why couldn't he do it with the southern Mafia, and use it to his Italian might. Instead of, you know, running away from it. Take on these idiots like he used to Turkey. He wasn't afraid, not at all, and he could certainly get away any time he liked, but he would rather not have to do anything, and just let somebody else fix everything. Even if it meant he was weak. And he hated being weak.

The other two men, the blonde and the olive one, swarmed him, his vision going fuzzy as he continued to bleed. "Let me go, you fucking bastard!" He growled, a groan coming from his lips as a boot met his face. He could feel the crunching of bone as blood dripped from his nose. Just fucking great. "Vaffanculo!" He spat, eyes narrowing on the Italian man, "Fottiti tua madre!"

The Italian man snarled, having understood the curses, and snapped at the olive man. "Nick, knock the pussy out. I don't want to hear from him, understand?" The newly named Nick nodded with a slight scowl, allowing the blonde to kick Romano in the stomach again, sending a flash of pain right through him, before injecting the sedative back into his bloodstream, watching as the anger and malice leave the Italian's eyes as the world around Romano once again faded to black.

"This is definitely our guy." The blonde haired man nodded coolly, breathing only slightly as he stared down at the unconscious nation with disgust.

"You're telling me this piece of shit is a fucking country? Forgive me if I find it hard to believe, Michael. Nick, clean up this damn mess. And stop his fucking bleeding, can't have him dying on us yet."

Michael shook his head. Sometimes his boss could be an idiot. "Raphael, don't be an idiot. No human could bleed as much as he is and still survive. He has to be a nation. I thought you said you'd done this before."

Raphael snarled, shifting his gun to point at the arrogant blonde man, "Watch your fucking tongue. I run this show. Your paycheck comes from me, don't forget that."

Michael rolled his eyes, but refrained from speaking.

Nicholas sighed slightly. He never enjoyed the power struggles between his boss and Michael. Mike may have been smarter, with a talent for finding people who didn't want to be found and making them disappear without touching them in the process, but he didn't like to be somebody's lackey. He certainly didn't enjoy being told what to do. Meanwhile, Raphael Russo was an idiot, of that any person could be sure, but he was the sort of idiot who made sure you never questioned his rule, and did whatever it was he told you to do.

He lifted the small nation up over his shoulder with a wordless grunt, grimacing at the blood stains already on the ground. It was going to take him forever to clean those out of the concrete, and of course that stupidly impatient Italian wasn't going to be understanding of that. No matter what he would say, it wouldn't matter. Excuses, excuses.

"Castellanos, what did you get yourself into?" The Greek man said quietly to himself, adjusting his grip on Romano as he carried him carefully into the bathroom. All he wanted was money, so he could get himself through school, pay for his father's rehabilitation, his mother's chemotherapy. That was all. Of course, it could be worse. He could have been his sister...

With a glance around for a place to lay down the unconscious nation, he eventually decided the bathtub would be the safest place, stripping the smaller male of his clothes. Nick grimaced; he hated blood. With a sigh, he realigned the broken nose before fixing it with a splint, drawing a strangled gasp from the Italian's lips, even in his unconscious state. "Sorry." He grunted quietly, despite knowing that he wouldn't be hurt, before setting on the gunshot wound to the abdomen. When he did the best he could, hoping that Michael was right and that they healed abnormally fast, he checked the ribcage carefully, noting any breaks or fractures. At this time, he was glad to find, there seemed to be none. Now came the unsavoury task.

Another sigh, deeper this time, came from the young man as he went to grab a sponge, wetting it down with warm water before returning to the sedated captive, washing him slowly, careful of his wounds and the bruises that were already turning a nasty purple. He clucked gently, brushing his hair back from his face with gently, stroking his slightly swollen cheeks with his index finger. "An... Antonio..." the Italian man groaned gently in his unconscious state, following up with his iconic, "tomato bastard. Chigi."

The Greek chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "Alright now, time for bed." He said, quiet once again. No one really knew why Nicholas Castellanos insisted on being so silent around people, it was just who he was. Raphael Russo was loud and forceful, Michael Baker was cold and arrogant, and Nicholas Castellanos was quiet and introspective. Somehow, even if they didn't enjoy each others' company all that much, it seemed to work. Nick lifted the Italian into his arms, careful not to disturb the rapidly healing wound as he carried him back into the concrete bunker, laying him down on the hospital-like bed that had been set up inside. With a look of careful apathy, he shackled Romano's hands and feet with steel handcuffs, knowing that he would be reamed out by his boss later on for such a haphazard job earlier. He then inserted the IV's of fluids and blood into the incapacitated brunette's veins, figuring that even if he did heal quickly, he would likely need blood.

With a brief nod to himself, he returned to the washroom to retrieve the bucket from under the sink, filling it with hot soapy water. He carried the water bucket with a grunt, water sloshing from one end to another in a violent tidal wave as he waddled back into the concrete room, scrubbing valiantly at the already darkening puddle of blood on the dreary grey floor. All the while he muttered to himself with irritation, sitting up to wipe his brow of its sweat. At that moment, Raphael decided to walk in.

"Never mind that," he said, glancing at the ground before turning his attention away, "it's clean enough. Now come here."

Nick grunted, giving a small glare. He hated being interrupted when he was in the middle of a task. It was his biggest pet peeve. At the same time, however, he couldn't just ignore a direct order. With just one glance at the task he had yet to fully complete, he sighed and stood up, following the older male out of the room, down a hallway and into the office.

Unlike the cold and dreary room the captive was being kept in, this room was well lit and decorated. The floor was hardwood – midtones, he thought, some honey but dark enough not to be offensive to the sight. A large Persian carpet covered the most of it while an elegant oak desk sat in the middle of the room, a leather recliner behind the desk. Against one wall was a set of bookcases, full of texts from all over the world. Knick knacks lay all over the room.

"You must think horribly of me, for doing this to a seemingly innocent man." Raphael stated, sitting down his chair. He offered another chair, seemingly from the same set, to Nicholas. After a moment's hesitation, he sat, staring into the brown eyes of his boss with his impenetrable black ones. He paused a moment, carefully calculating his words. To the intelligent young man, the man who once dreamed of being a doctor, this seemed like a test.

"My opinion does not matter," he stated slowly, "you do not pay me to think. I am paid to do as I am told."

Raphael chuckled without humour, raking his hand through his unkempt black hair. "I like you," he said with a dark smile, "You're real refreshing to be around, Nicola. However, I do have my reasons." He reached out with his right hand, rings on each finger, for the framed picture on his desk. He sighed, touching the woman's cheek; long ago, he'd been happy. He was only thirty-five. His sister had only been twenty-six.

"She's quite beautiful." Nick commented offhand, not sure where this was going.

"This is my sister. My half sister, really, but we grew up so close together that we consider each other full blooded. She died a month ago in Italy." He said softly with a sigh before placing the picture back down. His honey-brown eyes turned cold and hard, fixating on the Greek before him, "It is this pathetic excuse for a nation's fault. He failed to protect her. He failed to save my sister."

Nicholas frowned a little, unsure of what to say. "I'm sorry for your loss." He said, rather cliched.

Nick was saved from having to give anymore comforting words by an out of breath Michael, his ocean blue eyes alight with excitement. "He's awake!" Michael cried happily, lips curved up in a twisted mockery of a smile, "he's awake! He's awake!"

Raphael stood rather quickly, expression darkening further. "Good." He stated coldly, retrieving three knives from his drawer, passing on each to the Greek and the blond before tossing his from one hand to another. "Then let's go pay him a visit, shall we?"

Michael didn't wait for another word. He was already gone, running back down the hallway with childhood delight. Nicholas squirmed uncomfortably. He was alright with letting them get away with this, but actively participating? Could he do such a thing?

Of course he could, as long as it meant he got paid.

Romano thrashed against his restraints angrily, blood running cold as his amber eyes met those of the too-excited blue eyed monster. "Let me go, you Aryan bastard!" he snapped, thrashing again.

"Can I give him the first blow? Can I, oh can I?" Michael asked darkly. Raphael rolled his eyes, but waved him off.

Lovino had thought that there was no worse pain than the gunshot to the abdomen but, as the blade jabbed deeply under his ribcage and into his chest, he couldn't have been more wrong. Without meaning to, he let out a sharp cry, tears springing to his eyes and rolling down his cheeks, crying out more as it was twisted inside. Blood spurted to his lips and he spat it at his assailant, receiving a smack to the face from the Italian ringleader. "Tell me what I did, you sadistic bastard..." He wheezed angrily, glaring as fiercely as he could towards Raphael.

"Tell you what you did? As if you don't know." He snarled, glancing at Nicholas.

Nick sighed and raked the blade across Romano's skin, not digging in but making him uncomfortable all the same, not wanting to cause more pain than necessary. Michael, however, seemed to view it in a different manner, however.

"They're so beautiful in their pain, aren't they, Nicholas?" He giggled, twisting the knife in deeper. His troubles earned him a breathy "fangulo", and his grin twisted more. "The stubborn ones are always that much more... delicious."

The knife was jerked out with a sticky _'shlop'_.

Raphael grinned in response, though it was not a pleasant sight. "Yes, they are, Michael." he said, in a rare show of agreeing with the sadistic young man, "so much more fun when they break."

"I'll never break, you donkey fucker." Romano swore, eyes as cold and hard as glass. He cried out, coughing up blood and bile as Raphael's fists landed precisely where the knife and bullets had both gone. "Fangulo!" He hissed, writhing in pain, lips parted in a silent 'o'

"Shut up, ya Italian bastard. We know what ya are." Raphael snarled, sliding his own blade cleanly into his ribs. The irony of the statement was not lost on the Greek beside him, "We know what you've done."

Romano gave out strangled cry, trying desperately to show no weakness to these men, even as he thrashed against his shackles, rubbing his wrists raw. "Vaffanculo! I don't know what you're talking about! Ah!" His voice raised in pitch, tears rolling steadily down his cheeks with shame as he twisted his serated knife into his ribcage, Fangulo! Che Cazzo! Cazzo vai via bastardo! Pezzo di merda!" With each swear, the knife dug in deeper, his mouth filled with blood and his vision grew fuzzy and black once more around the edges. All he knew was pain, "Porco Dio, coglione!"

"I said shut up!" The man snapped, digging the knife in harder, "You killed my sister!"

"Fan... Feli! Felici-..." his vision began to fade once more, his last thoughts to his brother. _"Please find me. And kill them."_

Raphael ripped the knife out in disgust, tossing it across the room. Michael whined, having wanted to 'play' more with the nation. "Clean up this mess." Raphael growled to Nicholas, "I'm going to my office. I do not wish to be disturbed."

The slamming of the concrete door punctuated his statement. With a deep sigh, Nicholas set about on his work, the endless cycle of repairing, cleaning and torture. Wash, rinse, repeat.

**Wooo... this one was a quite a bit longer than the first chapter, it seems. I'm glad that the rest of you liked the first chapter. I have to admit, I worry about revealing the characters and everything so soon, but we'll see how it goes. They likely won't be staying in NY for too long (wink wink). What do you guys think about my Greek guy? Kind of interesting, I find, that the one whom seems most intimidating at the beginning of the chapter seems to be the kindest one by the end of it, ne?**

**Ciao for now~**


	3. Chapter 3

"In America?" Ludwig repeated incredulously, "vhat's he doing zhere?"

Italy wiped the blood from his lips, relieved as his brother's mind faded into unconsciousness. He immediately felt bad for thinking like that, but t wasn't as if he didn't have a good reason. It was easier on both Italies when he was unconscious, so they wouldn't hurt anymore. "He was going to take me for lunch after the world meeting and was kidnapped He's – he's unconscious now, thankfully, cause I hate it when he's in pain." Feliciano sighed.

Germany shifted, uncomfortable seeing anything other than a smile on his good friend's face. It didn't sit well, didn't suit him at all. He wanted nothing more than to make the small brunette smile again. Awkwardly, the blond male put his arm around Feliciano's shoulder, relaxing as the Italian predictably snuggled in. He had had no issue holding the male before, when it had been a matter of getting him onto the bed but, as a comforting device? Well, Germany wasn't exactly the most _comforting_ nation in the world. "Hey, now, it vill be okay, ja? Ve'll find him, I svear it, Italy."

Feliciano smiled a watery smile and blinked tears out of his eyes, pressing his nose into the crook of Ludwig's neck illiciting an involuntary shiver from the German man. He had the resists the urge to take the Italian's hand and entwine their fingers together. His cheeks flushed – now was not the time for such thoughts. Never was there a time of such thoughts. "Ve..." Italy murmured, "Thank you, Germany."

"Anytime."

"I know it's not my-a fault..." Feliciano said quietly, "but I still feel as if... I mean, I felt that something was off yesterday but... I ignored it. I should have known better, but I didn't... I ignored it until he was in physical pain. It took torture for me to notice. Am I a horrible fratello?"

Germany looked at the top of Italy's head (as, in their current position, he was unable to see much more than that) in shock. "Vhere... vhere did zhat come from, Feliciano? Of course you are a guten bruder!Don't zhink like zhat, zhose kinds of zhoughts aren't going to get us anyvhere Don't zhink zhose zhoughts, please." He murmured, stroking the top of his head gently. His fingers brushed against the curl absently before he caught himself. He may not have known what, exactly, that curl did to the smaller brunette but instinctively, he knew it was neither the time nor the place to experiment with it. That could come at another time.

Feliciano, meanwhile had tensed up the moment his curl had been touched, swallowing hard as he pressed his flushed face farther int the German's neck. He was glad for the distraction, and couldn't help but hope he'd continue, distract him for a long while. Show him how he truly felt.

Italy immediately banished that thought. His brother was in danger and he was thinking about sex? How could he be so heartless?

"Oh!" Germany exclaimed, feeling something vibrate against his thigh. He gave Italy a quizzical look, who blushed in embarrassment.

"It's my-a phone." The brunette clarified, pulling it out of his pocket and answering it, "C-Ciao?'

"Hola Veneziano! Is Romano there with you? He's not answering his phone and I can't find him anywhere!" Spain's voice blared from the speakerphone, tone anxious and pitch rising.

Italy bit his lip, "ah, Antonio..."

"Well? Is he there? Oh, dios, I don't know what I'd do if–"

"Y-you see, Antonio," Feliciano interrupted awkwardly, twirling a lock of hair as anxiety and dread coiled in the pit of his stomach. Germany put a comforting hand on his shoulder, and Italy smiled at him weakly in thanks, "Lovino, well... he's been-a... uh... kidnapped..."

There was a silence as Spain processed this information. A minute had passed before Feliciano could work up the nerve to speak again, "H-hello?"

On the other side of the line, Antonio growled in fury, his voice dropping an octave "I'm coming over."

Dial tone.

"Vell," Germany said in an attempt to fill the ensuing silence "zhat could have gone better."

Italy looked at the German in confusion. He must have felt very uncomfortable; he out of all the people Feliciano knew, he _never_ felt the need to fill the silence. The moment Spain entered his homeland, the little brunette could feel it, and so he wasn't at all surprised when his doorbell rang a minute later. "Come in, Spain!" he called out, moving out of Germany's arms with a reluctant sigh. Germany frowned both from the lack of warmth and out of confusion.

"It has only been five minutes! He shouldn't be here yet."

"He did a trasferire." Feliciano shrugged as Spain stormed into the room.

"A vhat?"

Feliciano frowned "I... don't know what it's-a called in English. Because Spain was in the Roman Empire like-a I was when we were young, he still has ties to-a the former Empire. He can't feel the echoes of it or-a track someone through out it like Romano and I-a can, but he can trasferire himself, either instantly appearing at my-a borders and doing a trasferire run through the country or simply running through all-a the borders."

"Oh! So a verlegen!"

Spain, holding his battle axe over his shoulder, slightly breathless, blinked. "Are you talking about traspasar travel? It's called Transfer Travel or Transfering in English, by the way."

"Ciao signore Antonio."

"Guten tag herr Anton"

"Hola senor Feliciano, senor Ludwig." He said casually and, though there was a smile on his face, it wasn't a pleasant one. "Now, Feli, you said my little tomato was stolen?"

Italy nodded and sighed, walking out into the living room. "This... isn't something to talk about in a bedroom."

"Oh, yeah, what were you two doing in the bedroom together anyways? I know you share a bed but... not at siesta time" Germany blushed at the implication but Italy just waved it off.

"I'll explain that in a second." He said, grabbing himself some coffee. Both Spain and Germany blinked; since when does Veneziano drink coffee?

"Please excuse my lack of energy, signore Antonio," he said after a sip, trying to remove the taste of blood and bile from his lips, "you see, my fratello's captivity affects me, too, and it's taken a lot out of-a me... ve."

Spain noticed, for the first time, how unwell the younger Italy looked. He was pale, hair sticking to his face with sweat, and looked as if he'd fought an army. Or the British navy. He was shaking, leaning heavily on the counter, and every now and then he would take a very deep and wet sounding breathless

"Feli... are you okay?"

Another sip from his coffee and Feliciano cleared his throat, wincing in pain, "From what I can sense of him, my brother was kidnapped yesterday afternoon by three men, though I don't know who they are or what they look like. He was in New York and was going to-a surprise me after the meeting by taking me out to lunch. I think he was-a drugged overnight"

"Oh no... but... how could they have drugged him overnight? Unless there was a steady stream of high grade anesthesia and sedatives, it would just wear off, wouldn't it?

"I... don't know. All I know it, he woke up sometime during my siesta, and I didn't feel or notice any of it until he was shot. From there, he's been beat, kicked and knocked out again. I'm not sure it was even ten, fifteen minutes before he was awake again, and stabbed. Twice. Each time, the knife was twisted in to hurt more, until he passed out again."

Both Antonio and Ludwig paled. Antonio couldn't believe anyone would dare to hurt his little tomato like that; Ludwig couldn't believe the pasta-loving ditz he knew could handle that much pain, and handle it as well as he did.

Silently, both men agreed: those fuckers were dead.

"To make matters worse," Italy continued after a moment, "at some point, Romano decided to relinquish most of his nation status temporarily he kept just enough to keep him alive and able to re-heal himself, but he gave me the rest."

Now Spain was alarmed, "pourque?!"

"It was something we had agreed on years ago. If one of us were under attack and in-a torture, the other would receive all nation duties and status, giving the other the bare minimum. This way, the land wouldn't be affected by Romano's pain – physical pain can damage the land and people, but emotional and telepathic pain only mildly disturbs them – and that way I'd have all the strength and could take down the bastardos that dare touch my fratello... ve."

Spain blinked and Germany shrugged, "he's in a lot of pain, herr Spain, he's been svearing since he voke up."

"So, you're saing that my tomato is being tortured in America and you have the same strength as a full nation and we're just standing here?!"

"Ve have to tell America, Italy. He can help us und Romano is his friend."

Feliciano nodded and ran his fingers messily through his hair, taking a deep, shaky breath. Ludwig couldn't help but notice how weak he seemed and moved to his side. "Antonio, can you call America? Tell him to keep it-a quiet for now – no armies. It doesn't look good, but as of right-a now, we don't know if they know-a we're nations, and have to assume they-a don't."

Antonio nodded somberly, going off in search of a phone. The moment he did, Italy's legs gave out on him and Germany quickly lifted him up into his arms before he could hit the floor. "Vhoa zhere, Feli, you can't overexert yourself, dummkopf." He said softly, laying him down on the leather couch.

"B-but... Germany... I have to find fratello. I have to. He needs my help."

Ludwig sighed and smoothed back his hair, sitting on the arm of the couch. With the pads of his thumbs, he gently brushed away Feliciano's tears. "I know, und you vill find him, Feliciano, but you can't help him right now. You need to be feeling your best, need to be at your strongest. Und besides, you can't do anyzhing until ve speak to America."

"Ve... I guess you're right."

"Hey guys?" Antonio called out, walking into the room with the phone in his hand, "Okay, America, I'm putting you on speaker."

"Hey, Veneziano bud! I heard you weren't feeling the greatest. I'm sorry for your bro, I promise I'll help you find him. I know what it's like – Matty n' I maybe aren't as close as you n' Roma are, but I can still feel when he's hurt so I know the feels."

"Ve.. thank you, America."

"No problemo, you'd do the same for me, right? It's not gonna be easy – I have nations coming and going and there are a LOT of Italians in the US,_ especially_ in New York, but I'm trackin' him down. I'm gonna do everything in my power to help you. In the meantime, I'm coming over. I'm just gonna Transfer to England first, cause I have more ties to him as I'm his former colony so it's easier. From there it shouldn't take too long, an hour, hour n' a half, two hours at most, to do a Run to Italy, so you hold on little bud, the hero'll be there soon!"

"S-si."

"Oh! And Spain! Tell your fucking daughter to stop hopping the fucking border! I don't mind when she visits but it has to be fucking legal, dammit! I'm done with illegal aliens!"

From the other side of the line, it sounded like he was hit.

"S-sorry about that, eh. Al can be a bit of an ass. H-he'll be right over."

Spain chuckled, "alright, thank you senor Canada. Tell Mexico I say hi."

"Will do, eh! Au revoir, monsieur Espagne!"

"Matty, stop speaking frog and start speaking freedom!"

"Oh mon dieu, Alfred..."

"WHAT DOES THAT ME–" the phone clicked.

Germany was the first to break the silence, "vell, vezher ve like it or not, und I vote for not, America is now involved.

"I could go for a siesta..."

"Ve... me too..."

"Ja, I could nap, too" He said. Feliciano yelped as he was suddenly lifted into the arms of the blonde male.

"G-Germany! What are you-a doing?"

Spain giggled as he followed the couple to the bedroom.

"Vell," Ludwig reasoned, "I imagine ve von't be getting much sleep until Italy Romano is found, so ve might as vell nap vhile ve can, ja?"

"S-si..."

"I call the right side!" Spain announced, laying his battle axe on the floor and hopping into the bed. Germany deliberated for a moment, torn. Did he want Italy in the middle, where he couldn't fall off the bed should he lash out, or did he want him on the edge of his bed so Spain couldn't touch him?

Damn his protective instincts.

Eventually, he decided that his intimidating demeanor would (hopefully) be enough to hold Spain off for now and so he carefully placed him in the middle, taking his place on the left. It did not surprise the German when Italy immediately curled into his large chest, as he was used to such behaviour from the smaller (yet, older) male and it seemed he even enjoyed it. At least, that's what Antonio thought, as a peaceful (though understandably still troubled) smile settled over the blonde's face and his arms lazily rested on the Italian's hips. Internally, the Spaniard could feel two emotions: fangirl squee and longing, longing for his own tomato.

_'Oh Lovino'_ he thought sadly as he closed his eyes, '_We're coming for you. Just hold on.'_

* * *

**Sorry this chapter took so long! I'm starting school again tomorrow, so updates may be less frequent! However, I started a fanfic chat group in the forums ( www . fanfiction myforums / ClairDeLaLuna / 2495605 / ) which will allow me to quickly reply to any comments/queries while also keeping you up to date on ALL my stories. This chapter is sort of a filler and mostly fluff, because the last chapter was kinda heavy. Also, yes, imagine that Spain ships GerIta because, why not. I figured I ****_had_**** to add Spain, since I mentioned Spamano, and since it's on america's turf, he's gotta get involved, too, but don't worry! Italy's still the star of the show!**

**Ciao per ora! Bis bald Adios por ahora! See ya later! (Enough... stop playing with google translate!)**

Au revoir pour maintenant -shot-

**Okay, I'm done! Ciao!**


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